I had my port installed yesterday. The small contraption is a little bigger than a nickel in diameter and about half an inch tall. The port is placed under the skin about two inches under my right collar bone. A catheter runs under the skin from the port into a main vein just at the collar bone. You won't see the catheter at all, just the small lump of the port.
It was installed via a brief outpatient surgery under local anasthesia and 'conscious sedation', which is supposed to be just enough valium and pain killer to make you nap comfortably - although in my case, I was awake and chatting with the surgeon throughout the procedure, and promptly fell asleep on the gurney ride back to my room.
Once the incision heals in a few days, I'll start receiving a steady stream of chemo drugs via a special needle into the port - it won't hurt at all, and it will save me from regular IVs in the arm or hand.
Pre-bomb drop my dad had already made plans to be in skiing this week, so when Donovan came down with a fever the night before, Pop relieved Steve and stepped in to take me to the procedure. I've shared a lot of details about my tests and treatment of course, but I don't look or feel sick at all, so yesterday was the first real visual of what's happening here. Once they had me settled in my room, prep for surgery included taking some blood, an IV of antibiotics, frequent oxygen, blood pressure and temperature monitoring, 400 questions about my prior health history. It hit hard, and Pop was very quiet. As much as I'm prepared for this personally, I couldn't imagine if it was my baby they were poking and prodding.
The port will come out eventually, when treatment is all over and I've had enough clean PT scans to suggest remission. You've probably seen a port scar - a 2" straight line just under the collar bone. It's one of those unmistakable telltale scars, like that half moon a rifle scope marks in the eyebrow of a shooter to close to his weapon, or the burn scar across the inner calf of a woman foolish enough to wear shorts on a motorcycle. I was warned in advance about the kick back of a rifle, and my pipe burn from learning to ride a dirt bike at 13 has long since faded - but this scar I will wear with pride.
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I watched my best friend slowly die of metastatic kidney cancer over four years. He died last July. As someone who has been on both sides - a cancer patient and a caregiver, I think it's harder to be a caregiver. My heart not only goes out to you, but also to everyone close to you.
ReplyDeleteI say lots of funny, inappropriate things under Versed (the twilight drug). More so than when I'm not drugged, if you can believe it. :)